“I don’t live in Santa Fe. I live in New Mexico. Wanna see it?”
“Sure.”
Almost as soon as they leave the stop-and-start strip of Cerrillos Road, she falls asleep, as trusting as a child, one hand on his thigh. They haven’t so much as kissed. And for all the three-hour half-nodding drive he has cause to wonder: what, exactly, am I getting myself into?
She was sitting up in his bed smoking a pungent filterless cigarette. The room was too warm, the light at a mid-morning angle, and he hated the inside of his mouth, though his head didn’t hurt as much as it might.
“I think somebody died in my mouth. Last week.”
“Have a smoke.”
Usually he tried not to smoke cigarettes, but he was seduced by the smell. He lit one and inhaled, felt the nicotine bite, and grinned. God, the pure pleasure of y
